


Stella Stellina

by dicks



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicks/pseuds/dicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there was a time, he needs no name</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stella Stellina

  
**1\. he has regard for the end**  
  
He feels like his body was made of clay. He wraps his arm around his knees. Arms around his knees, Hayato thinks he hears something coming from behind the thick walls. He thinks his lungs are constricting as if he is flying too high on a hot air balloons. He thinks he is suffocating. He thinks he thinks too much. He does not think about the pain.  
  
 _Eat this before you starve to death.  
_  
There is a plate of something that look more like a cat vomit being pushed through the hole under the steel door. Hayato suppress the urge to vomit himself. His stomach grumbles at the smell of the food.  
  
 _Maybe I want to starve myself to death._  
  
 _No you don’t. You want to live because you think they’d come to save you._  
  
There are twenty-eight cracks on the ceiling, thirteen on the walls and there is one that is almost the shape of a bird. He has spent the minor part of his night counting.  
  
 _And you think they won’t? What the hell do you know, you motherfucker? They fucking will and when they do I’m gonna blow your rotten brain out once I’m free from this shithole.  
_  
Silence.  
  
Hayato strains his ears for any sound other than his own breathing.   
  
_Fucking miserable bastard_ , he curses the wall.  
  
He reaches down for the plate and brings it to his lap, scraping the food with his bare fingers before stuffing it into his mouth.  
  
-  
  
 **2\. across the room he hears the chimera croons  
(oh creator of mine, remember! remember!)  
**  
The color of his dream is blue. The color of his dream is blue with streaks of something silver. There is a woman with long argent hair, loose curls framing the sides of her face and she is humming Stella Stellina (1). Hayato isn’t a child, not in this dream but he wishes he were because then he needs no excuse just to lie there on the bench with his head on her lap. Bewildered and bemused, he sits at the edge of the bench, boring his eyes at her colorless face, at her moving lips and the sound of her voice reverberating in his head.   
  
_la mamma coi bambini-_  
  
The sound of her voice reverberating in his head.  
  
 _Stop_ , he says softly, slowly.  
  
 _ognuno ha la sua mamma—_  
  
 _Make it go away.  
_  
And then there are fingers grasping tight on his skull and suddenly he hears himself screaming. He screams, mouth wide open- splitting his face into two- _Who are you_ , she asks and her eyes are empty but she was talking to him, _Who are you_ , she asks again before continuing the berceuse. He squeezes his eyes shut but he feels it in his skin, on his hair, in his own coarse breathing- he wants to stop breathing. The sound of her voice reverberating in his head.  
  
 _e tutti fan la nanna-_  
  
The color of his dream is red.  
  
 _Do you know you talked in your sleep?_  
  
 _Don’t fuck with me! I don’t talk in my sleep. I was having a nightmare._  
  
 _Do you often have nightmares about your mother?_  
  
Hayato scowls at the hole under the door, feeling utterly numb. He remembers the sensation of the long, thin fingers on his scalp, the slight warmth from the tips of his hair down to his spine, he remembers the urge just to curl into a ball and die in his sleep. He couldn’t remember the words.  
  
 _Shut the fuck up. How long have I’ve been here?_  
  
 _Twenty-six days, eleven hours, forty-two minutes and counting— why? Going somewhere important?  
_  
He said his name is Carlo. A son of a bitch and the food-bearer. He has the voice of a crippling crow, coarse and hollow and when he speaks, the voice that vibrates through the wall was devoid of all emotions, fathomless and it reminds Hayato a little of death.   
  
_I knew a Carlo once,_ Hayato had said _, and he was— he was a very good pianist._ (2) _  
_  
 _Was_ _? What happened to him?_  
  
 _I don’t know,_ a slight pause and then _, What the fuck are you mongrels planning to do with me? Why keep me locked in this joint?_  
  
 _Have you forgotten? Capo wants you to talk. They’re waiting for you to break._  
  
 _I’m not a rat_ , he snarls, _and I don’t just- break.  
_  
 _It is because you already broken.  
_  
Hayato laughs because there is nothing else to do.  
  
-  
  
 **3\. the boy was never a child to begin with**  
  
Hayato is eight again and his feet are barely touching the floor. He has his fingers splayed on the piano keys and he is staring at nothing, not the keys, not the music sheet, not his fingers; but staring at nothing, feeling a little bit of nothing, knowing absolutely nothing. He is waiting.  
  
Suddenly he is nineteen again, smoking his cigarette and staring at the moonless sky through the window of his small room apartment. There are a couple of horny dogs screwing outside, just below his window. Yes, the fucking season has begun again.   
  
Now Hayato goes back to being twenty-three and he is lying on his back with his legs dangling above his head. There is someone on top of him, inside him and the said someone is breathing heavily on the crook of his neck as the thrusts increasing and Hayato moves his hips and groans and then grabs the dark hair above him. He is moaning.  
  
Once upon a time ago, Hayato was fifteen and he was content; not practically happy but he had a goal in his life, he had belief - he had reasons. He vowed of becoming the right-hand of the Vongola boss, serving his life in on a platter in exchange for the title. He had friends, he had family. He belonged. It was a ludicrous life. A ludicrous dream.  
  
-  
  
 **4\. there was a time, he needs not name  
(there was a time, I need not name; since it will ne'er forgotten be)**  
  
Sometimes he forgets who he is. Sometimes he just forgets.  
  
 _Hey Carlo?_ He calls out but not because he seeks for the company, no, he speaks before he forgets how to speak.  
  
 _Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine—_ (3)  
  
 _Stop that fucking gibberish._  
  
 _You don’t like Byron?_  
  
 _I don’t like anything written by a bunch of neurotic fags._  
  
He inches towards the door and places his palms on the cold steel of the door. He has stopped clawing at the wall sometime ago; the blood under his fingernails has long dried. He wonders how it would feel to touch the black and white keys with those blood-caked fingers.   
  
_What about Rossetti?_  
  
 _Rossetti spent half of his life trying to be the second Keats and another half drunk. He was delusional. It’s depressing.  
  
_ Breathing deep, he could smell the stench of his own piss in the room. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.  
  
 _And you?_  
  
 _I am—_  
  
He is nowhere, he is somewhere and he is suspended in time. Sometimes he wakes up with completely different sets of memories and he stares and stares at the floor with horror. The shithole has become his home. This is home.  
  
 _I am— here._  
  
Breathe, he tells himself before he forgets. _Just fucking breathe._  
  
-  
  
 **5\. and so he becomes the creature of clay**  
  
There is something he cannot name- the moment he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly at the once recognizable ceiling only this time the difference is the color of the shadows; it was always darker in there, where he used to be- and it feels like he is ebbing, like he is gradually ebbing, like he would remain incomplete and then there were dreams but he is used to the dreams though, it was never the same dream, always in different colors and none of them were beautiful. Things have stopped being beautiful. He knows this.  
  
_Do you know you talked in your sleep?_  
  
He senses something from the corner of the room, bound to the darkest part of the room; a movement blending in dark, quiet murmurs, a cradlesong that is almost familiar-   
  
“Gokudera. Is there anything wrong?”  
  
—he has the voice of death, he screams the silent sound because he doesn’t want to be seen, cannot be seen unless he is chosen to. He is pitch black, he is malign but sometimes you can mold him, sometimes he speaks in riddles, and any moment now, any moment now as you are fumbling in the dark he would come to you for he is you, he belongs to you and you to him; he has the voice of death, the sound of a crippling crow, sometimes he speaks in riddles, sometimes he mocks and any moment now—  
  
“Gokudera what—”  
  
“It’s nothing,” he says in just above a whisper. “Just go back to sleep, idiot.”   
  
He has been waiting.  
  
-  
  
  
1\. Stella Stellina (Star, Little Star) an Italian old lullaby  
  
2\. Carlo is a character from Reborn Secret Bullet Novels, Gokudera's Story  
  
3\. A Spirit Passed Before Me, Lord Byron


End file.
